Opening my eyes, I realize they’ve dragged me over to the side of the room and left me there with an ice pack on my face. There’s blood on the pack and when I wipe my eyes, my hand comes back smeared with more. My blood. I didn’t land a punch anywhere near Jankowski. I have never been in this much pain, even when I broke my arm in two places on our skiing vacation in St. Moritz. My left eye is already swelling shut and I’m pretty sure I bit my lip on that last punch because there’s blood running down my chin.
Everyone else is sparring in pairs, ignoring me as the professor crouches next to me. “You must practice,” Zimmerman says, “a great deal. We don’t slow down or hold back for weaklings. You must learn how to keep up.”
Chuckling even though this is not the slightest bit amusing, I nod. “My mother ended my Krav Maga lessons because they were unladylike.”
He shrugs, standing up. “Mr. Toscano, attend to me.”
A man almost as tall as Zimmerman halts his sparring and walks over, clearly unhappy to be selected. He ignores me, rubbing his hands together as he nods to the professor.
“I want you to train Miss Aslanova,” Zimmerman says, “she’s essentially useless. Bring her up to speed as quickly as possible.”
The guy is definitely unhappy with this plan. He’s beautiful in an almost unseemly way, with dark hair and pale golden-brown eyes, almost an amber color, which are currently settled contemptuously on me. I’m mesmerized by his tattoos. Blazing up his bare chest, cascading down his arms and up his neck, they’re all beautiful and vividly colored. “Sir… perhaps it would be better if you picked a female to-”
“You’re my best fighter in this class,” the professor cuts him off. “Work with her every day for a month.” Looking down at my pathetic, bloody self, Zimmerman adds, “We’ll take another look at your skills then. If you can’t pass muster, you’re out.”
“Of this class?” I ask hopefully.
Leaning down, he stares at me. “Out of the Academy.”
Putting the ice pack back on my face, I hope it hides my wet eyes. Ihaveto stay here. There must be another way other than getting the living hell kicked out of me every day.
An alarmingly large, tattooed paw is shoved in my face. “Get up,” orders Toscano - I think that’s what Zimmerman called him.
Begrudgingly taking his hand, I stifle a yelp as he briskly hauls me off the floor and into his broad chest. Making an exasperated sound, he lifts me off of him.
“Sorry,” I mumble, “gravity is not on my side.”
“Come on,” he sighs, striding out the door and clearly assuming I’d be trotting after him, like an obedient Shetland pony.
Which I am.
“Where are we going?” I wheeze, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in my thigh and face.
“To the clinic to make sure there’s no serious damage,” he said, eating up the path with his long legs and forcing me to keep trotting, trying to keep up.
“Could you just- please slow down!” I said, grabbing his arm.
Looking down like I’d just infected him with typhoid or syphilis with my mere touch, he pulls loose. At least he had the common decency to shorten his stride a bit.
“So, I guess Jankowski is a ‘hate at first sight’ kind of girl, eh?” My feeble attempts at conversation were met with a slight flaring of his nostrils.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said dryly, “it was nothing personal. In combat, it’s always the last man standing. You won’t get any special consideration out there in the real world just because you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.”
“Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t arrive here as a world-class ninja,” I snarl, feeling the cut in my lip open again, blood trickling down my chin. Wiping it away, I continue, “No one here can be an expert ineverything.”
Stopping suddenly, he grabs my arm to keep me from crashing into him again. “Really,” he looks me over slowly, head to toe, and clearly finds me lacking. “And what are you an expert in? Anything?”
I am very, very good with computers, but I’m not telling this arrogant dick a thing about me. “Nothing, I guess.” I snap. “Why don’t you just point me in the direction of the clinic and I’ll-”
Curling his thick fingers around my upper arm, he sighs irritably. “Keep walking. And stop talking.”
“You started it,” I mumble, instantly sorry because that sounds so stupid. What is it about this man that reduces me to the eloquence of a toddler?
The medical clinic looks reassuringly professional, though the ancient doctor looks like a stiff breeze would blow him right off the cliff and into the ocean.
Pulling down his reading glasses, he looks at me disapprovingly. “What happened here?”
“Combat practice, Dr. Giardo,” my unwilling guide says.
